


Stray

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mention of abuse, Romance, a lot of angel introspection concerning his place in the universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley keeps bringing home strays even though Aziraphale tells him not to. They're going to get in trouble. But this last one is the one that makes Aziraphale start thinking hard about his place on this planet - and whether it's actual worth being a Principality or not. After all, he's an angel, right? Shouldn't he start doing what people - and demons - think angels are supposed to do?





	Stray

It’s 2:45 on a Friday afternoon when the bell above the door in Aziraphale’s shop rings, and he freezes. He’d been happily cataloging his newest acquisition, his Tolstoy collection, and the time had flown by. But 2:45 is the hour he enjoys least, especially on a Friday – after final bell, when kids from the schools nearby come in with their mothers looking for used copies of whatever passes for classical literature these days.

The lynchpins of their latest assignments.

Why schools don’t seem to want to provide books for their students, Aziraphale can’t understand. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, one doesn’t require a first edition of Chaucer’s works in order to complete a five-page essay. Aside from that, there are three other bookshops within a ten minute walk from his that handle the sale of mass market paperbacks.

Why does everyone feel the need to stop by his shop _first_?

Then they have the gall to get angry when he tells them he doesn’t have what they’re looking for and no, he can’t order it, because it’s not worth his time and trouble. What you see on the shelves is what you get, so please take your mediocre book list and your poor attitude and shop somewhere else.

Or call ahead. Save everyone the aggravation.

It probably doesn’t help that, in the grand scheme of the universe, he’s not that particularly fond of children, _or_ their parents. He’s an angel. He loves people in the general sense, and some specific people more than the bulk. But for the most part, he’d rather just be left alone with his books.

If he’d known it was creeping up on 2:45 on a Friday afternoon, he would have closed up shop over an hour ago.

Without even knowing who they are or why they’re there, he considers this customer a harbinger of doom. Therefore he’ll see to their needs (if he can) and then close up shop immediately after.

Then he can enjoy his Tolstoy in peace.

In the silence that accompanies the ringing of that bell (since he’s holding his breath) he hears two sets of footsteps shuffling through the shop.

One he recognizes.

The other makes him roll his eyes.

He sets his shoulders, hurries out past the stacks and shelves, and without looking at his husband, he says, “No.”

“Aziraphale!”

“Crowley! This is the _fifth time _this month!”

“I know, I know, but this is different!”

“That’s what you _always_ say!”

“But this time it’s the _truth_!”

“Crowley! You can’t keep bringing them home with you! We simply don’t have the space to keep them all!”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley tilts his head and cocks his hip “… that is the _weirdest_ thing you have ever said to me. We’re supernatural entities!” Aziraphale hushes his demon, but Crowley doesn’t drop his voice a whit. “We can make space! _Literally_ create space! Look! I’ll snap my fingers and make a new back room to your shop, easy peasy!”

Crowley lifts his hand, but Aziraphale puts his hand over it, fixing him with a deadly stare.

“Don’t. You. Dare. Crowley! It’s not just about the space! You can’t keep doing this! You can’t keep bringing in every single sad story you find on the street!”

“Aziraphale, you don’t understand ...”

“Yes, I do! I _do_ understand! But, I’ve told you …” Aziraphale stops when he feels his temper rising, knowing that his voice must be climbing with it. He can’t forget, they’re not alone, and the other one among them might be confused and _scared_ “… parents raise their voices at their children. And sometimes they spank. I don’t particularly approve of the practice myself, but it doesn’t mean they’re bad parents! You can’t keep kidnapping kids from their parents and nannies! Someone’s going to be by with the police soon! Now take him or her _home_!”

“This wasn’t a misunderstanding!” Crowley pleads, chasing down Aziraphale as he storms off to the refuge of his private workspace. “You weren’t there, angel! You didn’t see what they were doing to him! They were yelling at him! A-and hitting him!”

“_Spanking_ him?”

“_Hitting_ him! Look at his eye!”

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest, decidedly unmoving, done with this argument before they’ve truly gotten started.

“_Look_, Aziraphale!” Crowley gestures toward a chair in the corner – a corner that was once a reading room sort of set up until it, too, became overrun by Aziraphale’s massive book collection, very few of which ever actually leave his shop. Sitting in the chair is a tiny waif of a creature; his body, curled tight over his arms wrapped around his stomach, thinner than it probably should be; his dark, straight hair matted over his face. He sniffles but fights to stay quiet, trying to keep from making a sound. Maybe he thinks if he makes himself small and silent, he’ll be invisible. Aziraphale knows this.

He’s seen it before.

“You know, there are authorities to handle this sort of thing,” he says, but with none of his usual fire.

“Yeah, and when’s the last time authorities have ever done _anything_ worth two shits when it really mattered?”

Aziraphale isn’t trying to be purposefully cold. He’s trying to come up with a solution. As ironic as it sounds, angels can’t save everyone – not the way Crowley thinks they should. Aziraphale’s job is to inspire humanity, teach them to love one another, care for one another. He’s not supposed to interfere too much. Though now that taking on actual assignments from the head office are less of a concern for him, and he’s gotten the opportunity to pick and choose who he helps and how, he’s often wondered what good his overall job does anyway. Look at the accomplishments of humans by way of actual humanity.

Besides, the last person who came to Earth preaching kindness and compassion, they nailed to a cross.

Aziraphale approaches the boy, walking towards him slowly so as not to frighten him. The boy doesn’t look up, but he goes visibly rigid, and Aziraphale’s heart does a double thump. As Aziraphale gets closer, the boy begins to shiver, shaking so violently by the time he reaches him, the legs of the chair knock the floor. Aziraphale doesn’t touch him. Instead, he gets on his knees and looks up at him the best he can. The boy tries to hide his face, but before he does, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his eye – along with the other cuts and bruises marring his face, one that quite vividly resembles a cigarette burn.

“Good Lord,” he whispers, getting back to his feet, backing away and leaving him be. He straightens his vest, glancing at his husband pacing beside him, too worked up to stand still. “And where, exactly, do his parents think he is?”

“I’ve made them believe he’sss run off,” Crowley hisses in agitation. “I wanted to rack them with guilt, but …” He scoffs “… they’re not even looking for him. Sonsss of bitchesss.”

Aziraphale dusts the knees of his trousers, fusses with his tie. “Fine, then. He can stay. And we’ll … we’ll figure things out.”

The boy stops shaking. He goes a little less rigid. A moment later, he starts to cry. It’s a sound that hits at the heart of Aziraphale because it’s neither good nor bad. It’s both, and that’s when he knows he’s in trouble.

Crowley isn’t wrong. They need to do something because, often times, no one else will. This isn’t an isolated incident. Aziraphale knows that. And as much as he goes on about Crowley’s newfound habit of kidnapping children (probably prompted, in part, by Warlock’s parents moving him to the states) there’ve been a handful that Aziraphale, steadfast in his convictions, felt uneasy sending home to their parents.

But that also means Gabriel, as much as Aziraphale hates to admit it, is also not wrong.

Being a Principality in this day and age is kind of a sick joke.

Inspire humanity?

Sometimes Aziraphale wonders what’s left to inspire. And good luck appealing to the faithful. So few people have faith nowadays as it is, and those who claim to tend to twist it to fit their own agendas.

It’s made him bitter, and somewhat hardened to the plight of men.

But he’d be a hypocrite to persecute them for that. Angels have done the same for millennia, and he’s not immune. He recognizes that he himself has quite a bit to atone for, and not with regard to the temptations he did on Crowley’s behalf, but for the work he’s done in the name of God.

Especially where it comes to children.

There have definitely been times when Crowley, a demon, has had humanity’s best interests at heart better than he.

Aziraphale walks to the front door, motioning for his husband to follow. He throws the locks and switches the _open_ sign to _closed_, beginning to devise a plan for what will undoubtedly become they’re newest acquisitions together. He turns to his husband and puts his arms around him, hugs him tight until Crowley hugs him back.

“My dear?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Why don’t you go ahead and make me that new room. I have a feeling … we’re going to be needing it from now on.”


End file.
